He put his finger to her cheek in reproof of such supererogatory counsel to a man famous for his punctuality.
The day had darkened.
Beauchamp begged Jenny to play to him on the piano.
'Do you indeed care to have music?' said she. 'I did not wish you to meet a deputation, because your strength is not yet equal to it. Dr. Shrapnel dwells on principles, forgetful of minor considerations.'
'I wish thousands did!' cried Beauchamp. 'When you play I seem to hear ideas. Your music makes me think.'
Jenny lit a pair of candles and set them on the piano. 'Waltzes?' she asked.
'Call in a puppet-show at once!'
She smiled, turned over some leaves, and struck the opening notes of the
Ninth Symphony of Beethoven, and made her selections.
At the finish he said: 'Now read me your father's poem, "The Hunt of the
Fates."'
She read it to him.